“Do you think so?” she faltered, “or is this only to persuade me to go on? Oh, Antony, you cannot think how my heart beats with dread. I am afraid of this Miss Carr, and feel as if I ought to hate her.”
“Come along, you foolish girl,” I said; and, yielding to me, I led her up to the door, when we were admitted, and at once ushered into the drawing-room.
I did not at first see Miss Carr, but the door had hardly closed before I heard the rustle of her dress, and the next moment Linny was folded in her arms, and returning the embrace.
I stood for a moment listening to Linny’s passionate sobs, and then stole softly away, going down into the dining-room to stand gazing out of the window, but seeing nothing of the passers-by, only in imagination the scene upstairs, and wondering why Miss Carr had sent for Linny.
I was kept in doubt for quite an hour, and then the servant came and asked me to step upstairs, where, to my surprise, I found Miss Carr dressed for going out.
She held out her hand to me as I entered, and pressed mine.
“Don’t speak to me, Antony,” she whispered, in a broken voice. “I am going home with Linny Hallett.”
“You—going home—with—”
The rest died on my lips as I saw her draw down her veil to hide her convulsed face, and then, without a word, she rang the bell, the door was opened for us, and, feeling like one in a dream, I walked in silence by their side to the house in Great Ormond Street, where, as I placed my latchkey in the door, it was snatched open, and Mary, with her face red with weeping, stood there.
“Oh, Miss Linny! Oh, Master Antony!” she sobbed, “I’m so glad you’ve come. The doctor sent me out of the room, and I’ve been waiting for you.”